


The Great Escape

by serein



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Angst, Bayern München, Death, Emotional Hurt, Football, Hurt, Inspired by Music, Loss, M/M, One Shot, P!nk - Freeform, The Great Escape, Written quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 01:33:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2673953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tragic death happens, and Thomas breaks to pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Escape

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a 45 minute period. I'm sorry if it's rough on the edges.  
> If it's confusing, I apologize-sometimes it's done for stylistic purposes, sometimes it's done because I just do it.
> 
> Inspired by P!nk's last track on her beautiful album The Truth About Love: [The Great Escape](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Wl5-audkPY). One of the most gorgeous P!nk tracks I've ever heard, and it reminds me of people I've lost in my own life. I hope it evokes some kind of reflection in you too.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Thomas. For everything."

The voicemail had been the worst, because he got it three hours later after it happened. Or, rather, he didn't listen to it until three hours after, and that was how he found out, and by then it was too late, and Miro called, and told him what had happened, and he cried and cried and cried again and again until his eyes felt like going blind and numb and his body felt like going numb and dead.  
Why had he done it? Why had he picked that road of guilt and shame and terror and fear and doubt and despair and dark, dark, darkness?  
Was he lonely, or tired, or weary, or sad, or mad, or all of the above?  
Was he too afraid to call someone else, too driven to finish off everything?  
Why did it have to be this way? This way, this way of pain and hurt for everyone and Thomas wasn't sure whether he could be strong enough to not make it a number two.  
Bastian was so much stronger than Thomas was. Bastian was always the one who stood up for others in pain, the one who soothed hurt and protected, a man of passion, of hope, of dreams, of the faith that a light exists in all the darkness.  
How could-how could it all just-just end like that?  
Why didn't he tell Thomas earlier?  
Why hadn't Thomas pick up the damn phone earlier?  
Maybe he wouldn't be gone.  
Maybe he'd be right here, right now, on the old turquoise couch of Thomas, huddled with a cup of coffee like he always did when he was upset about something-anything, wrapped in a faint blue blanket, watching old games, watching old matches where he and Thomas were naïve and stupid and young and carefree.  
When he and Thomas had been so damn carefree that they forgot to care about bills and rent and girlfriends and wives and boyfriends and husbands and public opinion and hate mail.  
When he and Thomas had been best of friends, best of friends that had clashed over the simple heart of Miroslav Klose, the simple heart of one that was his to keep now.  
Maybe-maybe if he forfeited that damn war over Miro, Bastian would still be here, and be alive, even if he hated Thomas and hated how Thomas acted and talked and looked and lived.  
Manuel had told him after Bastian withdrew his advances towards Miro that it wasn't right for Thomas to do that, to make Bastian hurt, to make Bastian feel rejection and doubt.  
But Thomas neglected it-he didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't care.  
He had killed Bastian.  
He had killed Bastian.  
He had killed Bastian.  
He doesn't care what Manuel, or Philipp, or Miro have to say.  
He killed Bastian.  
Bastian, the reliable, the strong, the passionate.  
The one who everyone depended on, the one everyone had loved.  
Except maybe he didn't love himself.  
Maybe he died thinking Thomas didn't love him as much as he did.  
It was all his fault.  
It was all his fault that Bastian, Bastian the least deserving, was dead, was dead from jumping  
Manuel calls in, but Thomas doesn't pick up.  
He keeps calling.  
Thomas ignores him.  
He's in too much pain, the regret hurts, and hurts, and hurts, and the guilt.  
He did it.  
He did it.  
Bastian died because his ego had been stupid and idiotic and overblown.  
Bastian died because Thomas hadn't given up the stupid guy, the stupid boyfriend that didn't even love him.  
He keeps calling.  
Why can't Manuel just shut up?  
Can't he just let Thomas retreat to the silent corner, to revel in the stupidity of his actions, to dwell in sorrow and regret and repentance and rue?  
Can't he just respect Thomas' space, Thomas' emotions, Thomas' mess of decisions and emotions and words and thoughts and crumpled up sentences that didn't come out like sentences but as thoughts and words that seemed like thoughts but weren't really thoughts?  
He should know that Bastian died because Thomas had been so cruel, so petty, so trivial.  
He had slept around ruthlessly, isolated Bastian in his social circles, pushed Bastian into the worst situations, uncaring, destructive, inimical.  
He had put the best in the worst.  
Perhaps he was paying for his sins this way.  
He had killed Bastian.  
He had killed Bastian.  
The cold throngs of the December water hadn't killed Bastian; Thomas had killed Bastian.  
He had killed Bastian.  
Bastian was found at the bottom of the pond because of him, because of his stupidity, because of his blind foolishness, his imprudence.  
He was a child.  
How could a child meddle in the affairs of adults?  
Philipp and Bastian-they were adults.  
They cared about more than themselves, more about gaining things.  
They had much more important dreams.  
And Thomas-Thomas the child, Thomas the foolish, little child, had killed one of them.  
Why was Bastian sorry?  
Bastian shouldn't have been sorry.  
Thomas was sorry.  
Thomas was sorry for killing him.  
Thomas was sorry for ruining his life.  
Thomas was sorry for stealing something that was so rightfully Bastian's, so rightfully Bastian's to keep.  
Thomas was sorry for making Bastian feel numb and pain and despair and anger and guilt and shame and selfishness and loneliness and despair and despair and despair and an extra layer of the dark, dark, darkness.  
Bastian.  
Bastian.  
Bastian.  
Bastian.  
 _Bastian._  
Thomas had killed Bastian.  
He had been so selfish, so ugly, so destructive, so childish that he had killed a man by taking everything, by taking everything he had.  
And the man had been his best friend.  
His very best friend.  
His best friend so close they were like brothers, like twins, like a married couple but without the complications.  
Until Miro-Miro was Bastian's boyfriend, and Thomas wanted him so bad-so bad that he threw everything out to have him.  
And now Miro-Miro had broken up with Thomas, and it had all been for nothing.  
He had killed Bastian for nothing-Bastian had died for nothing, nothing, nothing.  
Nothing.  
His edges were rough-but he never understood that his edges were rough enough to cut like tiny slivers of glass, rough enough to hurt someone so bad they burned inside, they smashed into irreparable pieces.  
And he was feeling it now.  
The feeling of screaming underwater, the feeling that no one will listen or help or heal or do anything that can soothe the pain.  
The pain-the pain-the pain.  
Thomas-and Bastian-and Thomas-they were like one and the same.  
And Thomas' other half had left.  
Left.  
It wasn't right.  
Left.  
He had left.  
Bastian.  
The strongest and bravest and noblest and kindest man he knew.  
Bastian-Bastian had done it.  
Bastian had made the great escape away from Thomas-and Thomas was the one who gave him the map.  
The passion and the pain-the passion and the pain-the passion and the pain-it had all been too much.  
And Thomas-Thomas-now, Thomas was broken.  
Because there isn't anything he can do.  
Bastian has already made the great escape.  
And there isn't any way to pull him back.  


**Author's Note:**

> As the sixth of my song fics, I hope this one was enjoyable as well, even though it's far shorter than all the other (besides Gives You Hell, which technically isn't finished). I try to give a variety of music-if y'all have any suggestions, I'll take them.
> 
> It's rough-I know.  
> But it's supposed to be like that, a little, because in those moments, it isn't smooth.  
> It's rough.  
> Really rough.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> -Leon


End file.
